


Beer, Pastries and Sausages

by distelhawk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Mission Fic, Pre-Avengers Movie, Pre-Relationship, german dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distelhawk/pseuds/distelhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was nothing wrong with Germany, nothing whatsoever. Great beer and pastries and sausages, as far as Clint was concerned. But whenever he ended up in Germany, it was to places like Frankfurt, Hamburg or Düsseldorf. Not a 15.000 souls-back-alley of a place where, evidently, life <i>used</i> to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer, Pastries and Sausages

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the good ol' challenge by dictator_duck to write Clintasha in our hometowns.  
> I've lived in many cities, but my real hometown is a tiny back-alley of a place in north rhine westphalia, Germany.  
> Because there will hardly EVER be a reason for me to write about the town I grew up in, I just had to write something. This is probably the messiest fic I've ever written in my entire life. It has no aim, it has no direction, it just ... is. I wrote it in between making breakfast for the family and eating it and preparing for New Years Eve tomorrow.  
> I just needed to get it done with, because I probably won't have the time starting next year.
> 
> Canon-wise, this is set pretty early into Clint and Natasha's partnership, but their impending nuptials are really only visible if you squint.

„What the hell is this place?!“

“It’s a school, obviously.”

“Ain’t not looking like any school I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because you hate education and lack culture. Now shut up, they’ll hear us!” 

Clint sneared in the general direction of his partner across the room before training his eyes back on the door, still open and inviting. His gun was clutched in his hands, pointing the same way his gaze was. There were definitely still noises coming from down the hall and though it was the mother of all uncomfortable positions – being as he was crouched underneath a ridiculously small table – Clint didn’t move. Their target was obviously still roaming around and not making too much of an effort to hide it. 

Not for the first time did he try to reconstruct how they ended up where they were now, hiding under tables in what was, _apparently_ , a school in Velbert-Langenberg, Germany of all places. It has started off as a simply enough mission. Get to Sheffield, UK, grab the target after he’d made his drop, call backup. But something had spooked Jokovic (it had not been them, _it had not been them!_ and Clint would stick with that story no matter what) and off they were, on a mad chase. First through England with a quick stop in London. Then they lost him in Dover before he resurfaced in the Netherlands and now, Germany.

There was nothing wrong with Germany, nothing whatsoever. Great beer and pastries and sausages, as far as Clint was concerned. But whenever he ended up in Germany, it was to places like Frankfurt, Hamburg or Düsseldorf. Not in a 15.000 souls-back-alley of a place where, evidently, life _used_ to happen. 

Clint could hear change in the movement of their target and immediately signalled Natasha before – finally – rolling silently out from under his hideout. Weapon still drawn and ready, he inched towards the door, Natasha at his back. He was fumbling in his pocket for the small mirror he always carried, when Natasha suddenly made a noise. He could swear it was what the beginning of her laugh sounded like. Turning his head, he gave her a confused look and, indeed, Natasha her hand pressed to her lips, gun and all, trying not to make any further noises. 

_”What?”_ he mouthed more than said. Oh, yes. There was the mirror.

Natasha pointed down the side, a couple of feet to their right. He wished he could say he was more professional than this, but even Clint couldn't help the tiniest oft snorts escaping him, though his was more angry, nearly hurt. 

“Told you, this really isn't like any school I've ever seen.” He mumbled, turning away. 

Using the mirror to check the hallway on the other side of the doorway, he could feel Natasha relaxing fully back into mission mode behind him. It really wasn't that they were unprofessional – especially not the Black Widow. But after roughly 50 hours without sleep, blood loss on both their parts (though nothing critical) and moving through 6 different cities in 3 different countries during that time took its toll, even on the best assassin. 

Silently they moved out of the room, weapons ready for action, slowly down the corridor. On their move, they effortlessly switched positions – Natasha now up front, Clint covering her. He spared a few short glances for the walls, all painted in different colors, some even featuring drawings and again wondered what type of place this was. No lockers, no signs. Just a shitload of paintings and colors and, especially, wood. 

When they got to staircase, they stilled, trying to make out where their target had moved to. Clint heard him first. One look to his partner, and he was the one leading again. For a fleeting moment, he wondered why their target made any noise at all, but he ignored it. Jokovic had been on the run even longer than they had, Clint also knew he’d hit him with at least one arrow back in Sheffield. He was bound to make noises at some point. 

Down the stairs, a sharp right, another hallway towards another room that had light spilling out of an overhead window. Stopping in front of the door, Clint turned to Natasha, catching the excited shine in her eye.

The take down – either the best or the worst part of a mission. Clint knew she liked those odds. Smirking at her, he raised his hand. A swift movement from her jaw down to her neck, her pulse beating strong, her skin like velvet. It was maybe more than required, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. Three of his fingers were now resting on her pulse point and he nearly detected a hitch in her breathing. Good then. He very lightly clapped the three fingers against her skin. beginning the silent countdown. Then two fingers, then one, then none.

In one movement, he turned, opened the door wide and stepped back, casing the room with his eyes and his weapon. Before Natasha could slip in, all deadly grace and killer precision, a loud clang and a shriek could be heard. 

Well, fuck. Maybe even a little more than that. 

“Down on the ground!” Clint called, though he knew there was no use for it. Ibrahim Jokovic was very surely not hiding out in a school kitchen with that looked like 5 juvenile delinquents, throwing food from the fridge against the walls.

It had seemed off to him from the beginning. The last actual sighting of Jokovic had been on the Dutch border, the blurry picture of him in a white VW Golf from a traffic camera. S.H.I.E.L.D. had found the car just outside Düsseldorf, which had had Natasha and Clint abandoning their only just paid-for Bed & Breakfast in a tiny village called Schoonhoven and hitting the road again. Two hours after that, around Oberhausen, they had gotten intell that Jokovic was camped out in an empty school building in Velbert-Langenberg. Obviously that intell had been off. A lot. 

“Was?!” one of the teens shrieked again, reminding Clint that they were in Germany. 

“Runter, auf den Boden, sofort!” he nearly bellowed now, taking just little amusement from their horrified faces. The mission was very much a bust at this point but still, the thump of five bodies hitting the floor was at least a little satisfying. Natasha slipped past him to the kids on the ground, padding them down.

“Alpha, this is Omega-A. Do you copy?” 

“Hawkeye, what the hell is going on over there?” came the very grumpy response.

Either Coulson had been very worried during the last 4 hours of radio silence, or Clint had just taken him away from his favorite Burrito, it was a bit difficult to tell.

“Target not here. Or at least not anymore. Found a couple of civilians, though.”

“Hostages?” 

Clint spared a glance to the five, still huddled together on the kitchen floor and smirked.

“Wouldn’t quite call ‘em that, Gov’ner.” He drawled, his best brit-accent impression. 

“Damnit, Barton. Give me a straight answer.”

“Alpha, this is Omega-B.” Natasha now, an annoyed look on her face. “Requesting evac from 51° 21′ 7″ N, 7° 7′ 18”. Mission compromised, intell on target false, agents in need of medical attention, not critical, I repeat not critical.” 

She was never one for fluffing up or joking around, mainly appearing annoyed by Clint’s easy back and forth with Coulson over the com. But he knew better. Knew that she thrived on a good word sparring as much as he did. He had made it one of his missions in life to have her loosen up around Coulson. He would get there. 

“Civilians not compromised, Omega-B recommending flash-point protocol.”

There was silence for a long moment.

“Evac for 51° 21′ 7″ N, 7° 7′ 18 on route, will reach extraction point at 400 hours. Flash-point protocol approved. Over and out.”

“Well, he’s pissed.” 

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.” Natasha snaked, one eyebrow raised.

“You’re really no fun today at all.” Clint complained, holstering his weapons. 

“I don’t see what’s funny about a 3-day mission just blowing up in our faces.”

“Oh, but you laugh about a guitar that someone poo’d on?” It still stung. Seeing a great instrument tortured like that.

“Yes, I do.”

“And I’m the uncultured one?” 

“No, I take that back. Today you’re the five year old that won’t stop complaining.” This Natasha snapped, very much annoyed for real at this point. “And it doesn’t suit you, _Hawkeye_. Just so you know.” 

Clint regarded her for a moment in silence, trying to find a flippant reply that wouldn’t sound like a whine, before being interrupted by a girl’s voice, coming from the group of teens.

“Excuse me, uhm. Will you kill us?” Though she spoke in English, it was pretty clear that was about as much English as she knew, so Clint answered – his German was actually better than Natasha’s. 

“Nein, heute habt ihr Glück. Wäre aber toll wenn ihr wüsstet wo man noch ne Currywurst-Pommes kriegt um 11 Uhr nachts.“ 

********

As it turned out, Velbert-Langenberg didn’t serve any type of food anywhere at 11pm, least of all one of Clint’s favorite German culinary achievements in fast food. After the kids had stopped shivering in fear and realized they would not, in fact, end up with their brains splattered next to the eggs on the kitchen walls, they had been surprisingly cooperative. They showed Clint and Natasha a window in one of the classrooms that didn’t close properly and then led them back to the city center. After hiding most of their gear close to the evac point, it was only 11:20 and Clint and Natasha, at this point thoroughly exhausted, joined the teens for a beer at what the two agents could only assume was the local watering hole for 16-20 year olds. 

“Always liked that about Germany,” Clint mused, savoring the taste of his second beer. “That you can drink beer and wine when you’re 16. I mean, they make great beer, why deny it the youth?” Natasha hummed her agreement, the earlier annoyance long since forgotten.

Alter Markt, as the bar was called, was loud, dark, full but also surprisingly cozy and probably the only place that served anything of any kind at this hour and Clint had to admit, he was kind of enjoying himself. Natasha’s outwardly relaxed attitude and the vodka she was cradling indicated that she, too, came as close to enjoying herself just for the hack of it as Clint had ever seen her. He still saw her eyes flying around the place, double checking emergency exits and factoring in every new arrival. 

“Also, warum brecht ihr Nachts in eure Schule ein?” ( _So, why are you breaking into your school in the middle of the night?”_ ) 

Clint looked at the remaining three youths, Anna Markus and Maren, expectantly. Markus, sitting opposite Clint, leaned back slightly, uncomfortable, and shrugged. “Gibt ja sonst nix zutun.” ( _”There’s nothing else to do.”_ )

Clint laughed into his beer, shaking his head. Maybe he felt too much companionship with the three already – in his eyes, they were smart and funny and, mainly, just bored out of their skulls. It was a feeling he could relate to. Acting out just for the heck of it ... yeah, he knew what that was like. 

“Aber euch is klar, dass …” ( _”But you realize that …”_ ) 

Clint began, only to be interrupted by Anna. 

“Das es eigentlich nich OK is und wir Probleme mit den Bullen kriegen können und wir doch eigentlich intelligente Kids sind, die sowas nicht nötig haben?“ ( _“That it’s not OK and we could get in trouble with the cops and we’re actually intelligent kids that don’t need to do this?”_ ) Anna’s voice was pretty much dripping with sarcasm. Obviously, they’d had that discussion before. Clint put up his hands in surrender.

“Ich mein ja nur.” ( _”Just saying.”_ )

„Außerdem,“ Anna continued, „Isses doch viel cooler über euch zu reden. Ich mein, zwei … was? Agenten im Auftrag ihrer Majestät, mitten in der Nacht unterwegs im pissigen LA?“ ( _“Not to mention, it’s way cooler talking about you two! I mean, two … what, two agents ‚On her majesties secret service‘, in fucked up LA?”_ )

For the first time, Natasha joined the conversation. 

“Actually, we’re American.” Clint looked at her, surprised and she only stared back, nearly-smirking and challenging. “And I’m pretty sure it’s way past your bedtime.”

*************

After leaving the three teens drooling in the small corner of the bar they’d been sitting, Clint and Natasha made their way back to the evac point. Natasha had, stealthily as always, administered two drops of serum into the drinks of each of the kids. It would have them knocked out for 10-20 minutes, but would also mean they wouldn't remember the past 6 hours. 

“We didn't need to leave them already, you know?” Clint grumbled.

“Actually, we did. The bar’ll only be open for another 30 minutes and I thought you’d prefer them awake and alert so they can get themselves home instead of the bar owner maybe calling the police.” 

She was right. And she knew it. So Clint only hmpf’ed as an answer.

“Oh you grew really a little bit attached, didn’t you?” There was confusion in Natasha’s voice. “Why?” 

Clint paced his brisk walk for a moment and shrugged again before walking on, faster than before. He was doing that a lot lately, the shrugging.

“Barton, answer me.” Clint turned around, saw Natasha standing in the middle of the square they were at right now, arms crossed in front of her. 

“Really, Romanoff? It’s not that interesting or surprising.” He turned, walked the few steps back to her. “So I like kids. It’s no big deal. They were smart and bored. A shitty combination that someone should do something about.” He suppressed the urge to shrug again. 

“Anyway. You’re apparently American now. Guess we all have our little secrets.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Was?_ \- What?  
>  _Runter auf den Boden, sofort!_ \- Down on the ground, now!  
>  _Nein, heute habt ihr Glück. Wäre aber toll wenn ihr wüsstet wo man noch ne Curry Wurst-Pommes kriegt um 11 Uhr nachts_ \- No, you're in luck. But it would be brilliant if you knew a place around here that serves Currywurst-Pommes at 11pm at night.  
>  _Currywurst-Pommes_ \- [Currywurst](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Currywurst) and fries.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this a little bit. Like I said, it's a bit messy. 
> 
> All the cities mentioned in this story are actually cities I've lived in for longer or smaller periods of my life, but Langenberg is the one I grew up in, that I still call my home even today. 
> 
> The three teens and what they do in this story? Totally not me and my bffs OR totally not something me and my friends used to do (*coughs* except it totally is *coughs*) ...


End file.
